Poems By Thomas Philipott |
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On a Farmer, who having buried five of his children of the Plague, planted on each of their graves an Apple-tree.
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 | Poems |  |
On a Farmer, who having buried five of his children of the Plague, planted on each of their graves an Apple-tree.
You whose bold thoughts do prompt you on to glorieI'th number of your issue, view the storie
Of this afflicted Villager, since he
Was by th'increase of a faire Progenie
Made happy, till just God, for mans offence,
Imploy'd th'infection of a Pestilence
T'annoy the world, which five of's children gave
Vp to th' possession of the lavish grave.
But see what glorious pietie can dwell
I'th' narrow circuit of an humble Cell,
To preserve life in their remembrance, hee
Establishes on each grave an apple-tree,
By that quaint Hieroglyphick to declare
He was their tree, and they his apples were,
Which in his estimate did farre outvie
In tendernesse the apple of his eye;
And though sterne death had been so much unkind,
To pluck the fruit and leave the tree behind,
Yet in that action, he did but show,
That they untimely to their graves did go:
To shew in time, what we must likewise do,
Branches, Trunk, Root, and all must follow too.
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